


Untamed Still

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Series: Incidence and Reflection [2]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha Scott McCall, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Stiles, Beta Dean Winchester, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Hale Pack, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Incest, Kissing, M/M, McCall Pack, Mechanic Derek Hale, PSP stands for Plot-Sex-Plot, Roadhouse, Scenting, Scott seems like an asshole but he's not, Stiles has a Tumblr, spn crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles calls when Derek least expects him to.  After three weeks, Derek was beginning to wonder if he’d ever see the kid again.  That's one problem down, now it’s just a matter of figuring out what Stiles is, why Derek missed him so much, and why Derek can’t stop thinking about the bruises Stiles left on his skin…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untamed Still

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to thank EVERYONE who commented on and reviewed the first story in this series! That was my first TW fic, and I had such a great time that I knew I couldn't stop there. But without your encouragement, I never would have managed to finish this fic.
> 
> After the feedback I received on the original story, I decided to make Sam and Dean Winchester a more significant part of the sequel :) You don't need to know much about SPN to read this (as it's basically a SPN AU Crossover at this point). But reading the first story to get the background of the two separate packs is recommended!
> 
> Unbetaed beyond my own thorough editing, as I don't have a non-SPN beta at this point. Apologies!

“You wanna tell me about it?”

Derek shuts his laptop with a _click_ before Erica can steal a glance at the website he’s been checking out for the last hour, keeping his expression neutral when she drops onto the couch next to him.

“I thought you knew better than to ask me to talk about my feelings.”

“Feelings?” Erica’s mouth twists around her distaste. “No, gross. I don’t want to hear about your _feelings_. I want to hear about the sex.”

“What?”

Erica adopts her ‘my Alpha is the _worst_ ’ countenance, something she’s perfected over the last few months. “You’re still brooding over the guy you hooked up with, so obviously the sex was miraculous or something. I want details.”

“No.”

“It doesn’t have to be anything dirty,” Erica says, her luminous eyes going wide. “Oh my god, was it kinky? You have to tell me. I mean, all we got were your emotions—”

“ _Erica_.”

Her next words stick to her tongue. She throws up her hands and rolls her eyes. 

Good to know Derek still has some influence over his betas even if he feels outnumbered more often than not.

Erica remains silent, but she picks up the remote control and turns on the flatscreen, punching numbers until she lands on the _Style_ channel. She might not be interrogating Derek anymore, but that doesn’t mean she won’t find ways to needle him.

Derek adjusts his body until he’s wedged into the corner of the leather sofa and reopens his laptop. Erica glances over and he scowls, warning her away from trying to sneak glimpses of the screen. If she did, she’d never stop pestering him.

He’s been looking at Stiles’ Tumbling page again. Or was it Tumbly? Tumblr? Whatever it’s called, Derek finds himself pulling up the website every time he gets on the computer. He needed Isaac to explain what a Tumblr was in the first place, keeping Stiles’ username a secret even though Isaac offered to log into the site for him. His betas didn’t need the extra ammunition.

Derek’s been at the garage for two days. He drove down from the pack house to help with a backlog of tough jobs. He’s not in the habit of showing his face around the shop—the majority of the staff barely know him—but the manager he hired to run the day-to-day operations sounded desperate when he called. Since Derek owns the business, he had no choice but to man up or lose more than one customer.

He didn’t know Erica was going to show up and surprise him. Boyd was playing ‘big brother’ this weekend, tagging along with Isaac while he visited a couple of colleges in the area. Isaac was surprised when Derek insisted on the trip; he figured most of his aspirations had gone out the window once he became a werewolf, but Derek didn’t feel the same way. With him, Boyd, and Erica all working, they had enough money to send Isaac to a decent state school.

Derek should have realized Erica would make the trip down; she hated being alone. She’s been a great distraction for the dawn-to-dusk hours Derek’s been putting in for the last two days, but Derek expected a little more privacy. Not being relegated to the couch at night would be a nice bonus, too.

Being in this apartment isn’t easy. It’s been almost three weeks since his night with Stiles, and nothing remains of his scent. No cinnamon-and-sugar sweetness on Derek’s pillow, no waft of cotton or burst of green notes when he walks in the door. But Derek’s memory remains crystalline, perfect. Maybe it’s a good thing that Erica’s sleeping in the bed. The torture would be sweet, but Derek might have trouble finding his way to unconsciousness under the assault of his recollections.

The weight of his beta’s gaze makes him look up.

“Have you talked to him?” Erica changes tactics.

“We text.”

Erica rolls her eyes. “Impressive. Clearly you guys are soulmates.”

“He sent me an email.”

“Even better.” Erica turns away from the screen. “So when are you going to see him again?”

Derek swallows a mouthful of lead; discomfort sits heavily in his stomach. “I don’t know if I can.”

“That’s a stupid answer,” Erica points out. “Don’t you know where he’s from? Maybe you could surprise him.”

Derek huffs. “Right, and I could surprise the Alpha of his pack, too, when I show up in his territory.”

“Wait! He’s a werewolf?” She hops closer, bringing with her a cloud of lilac and suede. “You never told me that!” Actually, Derek had tried not to tell her _anything_ , but she has her ways. That’s what makes his second-in-command so dangerous. “It’s not like you’re forbidden from dating someone in another pack.”

“He’s not a wolf,” Derek says, touching his bicep purely out of reflex. “He’s human.”

Erica doesn’t know how to respond; she and Derek have that in common. Though humans can play vital roles in werewolf packs, they’re typically viewed as the weakest members. An Alpha like Scott McCall would no doubt be more protective of Stiles than he would be of his betas. Not to mention Stiles and Scott were best friends before _pack_. Derek is pretty much screwed.

And truthfully, Derek’s exhausted. He’s spent three weeks locked in a constant battle with his wolf. His feral side strains towards Beacon Hills, the home of McCall’s pack, but logic keeps Derek right where he is. McCall wouldn’t appreciate an invasion, and Stiles…well, Derek has no idea what Stiles would do. Derek told Stiles that the relationship would exist on his terms, and he hasn’t pressed despite waking up every morning to a somber and bitter wolf, whining and desperate.

Derek has never felt this way before; he’s at a loss.

Erica sighs, an expression close to pity on her face. “Screw this,” she says, rising to her feet and smoothing out her jeans, “we need food, and we definitely need alcohol. Then we can talk about this.”

Derek considers making a run for it while she’s gone, wonders how far he’d get before she tracked him down. The same qualities that make her a great second also make her terrifying.

“What do you want? I want barbecued chicken and cinnamon apples,” she states before Derek can gather his opinion. “I’ll stop by the roadhouse, too. See if Dean’s got a bottle of the good stuff for us.”

He doesn’t protest (honestly, barbecue sounds pretty damn good), but he does veto the apples. No can do on the cinnamon these days. Erica pouts, a move she picked up from Isaac, but agrees without forcing the issue.

Derek waits until he can no longer make out the sharp sound of her coupe’s engine before he turns off the television and refocuses on his computer screen.

He knows every post on Stiles’ blog by heart. The first time he visited, he was looking for clues, but he stayed for the sheer wealth of random information it contained about Stiles’ life.

Stiles enjoys obscure graphic novels and he posts pictures of abandoned buildings that are oddly beautiful in their disrepair. Derek’s never heard of most of the music Stiles writes about, but he enjoys the songs. There are witty comics for brainiacs mixed with old classics from _Calvin & Hobbes_. (Those were always Laura’s favorites, but rereading them on Stiles’ page brings comfort instead of anguish).

Derek hears the muffled ring of his cell phone, digging underneath the leather cushions until he finds it wedged against the back of the sofa, answering in a rush before the ringing stops.

“I told you, barbecue is _fine_ ,” he says, cutting off his beta’s question. Erica _always_ changes her mind. But all he hears is open air on the other end until…

“I’m more of a Thai fan. Spice it up a little bit, you know?”

“ _Stiles_?”

“I’m probably supposed to say, ‘don’t sound so surprised,’ or something, but surprise is cool. It’s not like I’ve called you before.”

“I’m glad you did,” Derek says, letting the rapid flow of Stiles’ words wash over him.

“You might not believe me, but I totally meant to call you before this. Thought about it every day, actually.” Stiles sighs. There’s an edge to his voice that Derek doesn’t recognize. It’s clipped and rushed, hard where it used to be vibrant and toned.

Derek asks, “Are you okay?” because his wolf won’t settle without an honest answer.

“Depends on how you define _okay_.”

 _As in, is there someone I need to destroy?_ Derek thinks. Saying it out loud might not go over so well.

“Things have gotten a little weird,” Stiles says. “Scott hasn’t been in the greatest mood since I got back from my road trip.”

“That might be my fault,” Derek tells him, rubbing his forehead. “There’s no way he wouldn’t be able to smell another Alpha on you. Sorry.”

“Don’t be, that’s actually kinda hot. But wouldn’t your scent have worn off by now?”

“Definitely,” Derek says. “Unless you haven’t showered in the last three weeks, and then I’d need to seriously reconsider how attracted I am to you.”

Even over the phone, Derek can tell Stiles is blushing. He’s enveloped by warm feelings that have been absent for nearly a month. Fuck, he’s missed this kid.

“What else is going on?”

“It’s mostly just pack stuff,” Stiles says. “Scott treating me like I’m an outsider and not his best friend-slash-commander of awesome. He’s done this before when things get really serious with his girlfriend. Pisses me off. I mean, I’ve been there for him since the day he was bitten, you know? And Allison—she didn’t find out for a while. That was a shit-storm.”

“It’ll get better,” Derek assures him. He’s incapable of letting Stiles continue to feel bad. “Alpha’s can be…edgy when they’re in a serious relationship. If there’s tension, it spreads to the entire pack.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Stiles sounds exhausted. If he’s anything like Derek, he hasn’t gotten much sleep in the last few weeks. In Derek’s case, the sleep he’s managed to find has been rife with unattainably erotic dreams. “Just wish he’d talk to me. Or notice that his attitude is bugging the shit out of me. I just…I don’t need this right now. You know?”

Derek swallows past the lump of fear in his throat. “Stiles, I’m sorry, I never meant to make things worse for you. But you called me—”

Stiles cuts him off. “Oh my god, Derek. _Shut up_. I wasn’t talking about you. You are…shit, sometimes thinking about you is the only thing that keeps me together. I meant Scott and this drama taking over my pack. I’ve never felt it like this before. Kinda makes me wonder why these other wolves would even _want_ to join us, you know?”

“New wolves?” Derek’s interest piques. 

“A pair of omegas—twins actually—who showed up, like, two weeks ago. They came to Scott and asked to join the pack. I don’t think they were super thrilled about having humans like me and Danny above them in pack hierarchy, but they’ve been okay so far.”

Derek’s not convinced. Omegas are hard to read. And werewolf twins are like an entirely different breed; their loyalty to each other will always come before their Alpha—it’s what makes them so dangerous to pack structure. McCall’s probably not aware of the risk he’s taking.

“Be careful around them, Stiles,” Derek says, speaking in a low voice even though he’s alone. “Twins don’t typically join regular packs.” He quickly shares the information he has, knowing that Stiles’ keen mind is downloading and storing every scrap.

Stiles listens quietly, then asks, “Do you think they have an ulterior motive?”

“Maybe not. They could just be desperate for the safety and companionship a pack provides. But you needed to know.”

“Right, thanks. Sometimes I forget that Scott and the rest of us are still pretty new to this whole _supernatural_ thing. Research only gets us so far. There’s probably a ton of stuff we’ll never know—things only born wolves learn.”

“You can ask me anything,” Derek says, one hundred percent sincere. When it comes to Stiles, he’s an open book. Or an extremely thorough Wikipedia article. Do teenagers even use books anymore?

There’s silence across the line, but it’s a comfortable calm. Derek enjoys listening to Stiles’ deep breaths, the way air rushes out from between his slightly parted lips. Of course, now Derek’s caught up in a vivid memory of those same lips wide in a smile, soft and smirking as he kisses across Derek’s chest.

Stiles makes a soft sound, which doesn’t exactly relieve Derek’s current _state_.

“So, remember when you told me that _this_ could be whatever I wanted to make it? What if I wanted you to meet me somewhere tonight? I know it’s crazy,” Stiles adds before Derek’s even finished processing the question, “but it kinda feels like I need to see you as soon as possible.”

“Stiles,” Derek cuts in, something urgent tugging at his midsection. “Tell me where.”

“Oh, wow. I never thought you’d—okay. I was thinking about this town I drove through on my way home. Brody, I think.”

“Brady,” Derek says. “I know it.”

“There’s a motel there, on Route 35. Probably the only one in town. It looked okay.”

“I can be there in an hour.”

“But it’s over a hundred miles from your place.”

“I’m at the garage.”

“Oh…” Stiles trails off into a soft breath. “Still, that’s pretty far.”

“Trust me, Stiles,” Derek says. “Go. I’ll meet you there and get us a room. If that’s what you want.”

Stiles laughs. “I was actually gonna suggest the diner right next to it, but a room—yeah, that’s so much better. I wasn’t sure if that’s what you’d want.”

“Get in the car,” Derek orders without heat, already standing and stepping into his boots. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”  
Derek has a hard time ending the call—Stiles’ voice is the remedy he never knew he needed. He dials Erica after changing into a shirt that’s not grease-stained and sweat-heavy.

“Change of plans,” he tells her, “I need to see Stiles.”

“What the hell’s a _Stiles _?”__

__In the background of the call, Derek picks up the dull sounds of thick glass on lacquered wood, the low drone of a dozen voices blending together. One voice is easy to recognize._ _

__“You’re at the roadhouse.”_ _

__“Yep,” Erica says, “and Dean wants me to tell you that the guy you keep asking about hasn’t come back. He’s talking about your little date, right?”_ _

__“Not right now,” Derek grumbles, hunting for his car keys. “I won’t be here when you get back. Stiles called.”_ _

__“Oh, now I get it. _Stiles_ , huh? Your little mystery lover.”_ _

__“Erica.”_ _

__“Fine,” his beta huffs. “Be like that. Not like I won’t _feel_ it later anyway.”_ _

__Derek forgot about the emotional transference, but maybe physical distance will dampen the effect Derek’s emotions have on the rest of his pack._ _

__“Sorry about dinner,” he says._ _

__“No big deal. I’m sure Dean’s hungry.”_ _

__Derek hears Winchester whoop in the background. He knows he’s missing out on some damn good barbecue, but given the promise of _Stiles_ , he doesn’t care that much._ _

__“Am I gonna see you tomorrow?” Erica asks._ _

__“I don’t know,” Derek tells her as he locks the apartment behind him, soles of his boots crunching across the gravel lot. “Sorry to ditch you.”_ _

__“It’s alright. I’m sure Dean won’t let me get too lonely.”_ _

__“ _If you’re feeding me, Reyes,_ ” Derek hears Dean say, “ _then I am all yours for the night._ ”_ _

__Confident that Erica’s secured her entertainment for the rest of the night, Derek hangs up and listens to the sound of the Camaro’s engine, wasting no time before he roars out of the lot and makes for the highway._ _

____

~~~

Fifty-eight minutes later, Derek walks into room 24 of the Brady Motor Lodge. He drops his car keys on the faux-wood dresser and opens Stiles’ last two texts.

— _On route 35. Be there in 20._  
~ _Can’t believe how bad I wanna see you._

Derek quickly texts back.

— _I’m waiting. Room 24._

— _That’s my lucky #_

The room is plain, no frills, suitable for road trippers and restless nomads. The kind of place that gives travelers what they need without enticing them to stay too long. Basic furniture, an inoffensive taupe color scheme, and a television set from the late ’90s. But the king bed looks comfortable, and although Derek can smell _many_ things throughout the motel room, the sheets and pillowcases are freshly laundered. He does yank the comforter away from the mattress and stash it in the closet, because yeah—no. If Stiles gets cold, Derek has body heat to spare.

Feeling the first pangs of hunger, Derek walks over to the diner Stiles mentioned. By the time Stiles texts to say he’s almost there, Derek is on his way back to the room with two cups of coffee, a cheeseburger with fries, and two plate-sized chocolate chip cookies.

Suddenly Derek is too nervous to eat. He’s having a tough time processing how desperate he is to see the kid. Feels like there are live wires running under his skin, and the closer Stiles gets, the more they spark and heat. Derek kicks off his boots and takes a seat on the bed to keep himself from pacing, tuning his senses towards the parking lot.

The metallic rattle of an old but well cared for engine is like a siren’s song. Derek’s on his feet and at the door before Stiles opens it, sweeping up the tall, cotton and denim-wrapped bundle of limbs as soon as he crosses the threshold. 

“Whoa,” Stiles says, voice muffled against Derek’s shoulder, “best hello _ever_.”

Derek intends to pull away and give Stiles some air to breathe, but his plans change abruptly when Stiles drops the bag he’s carrying, throws his arms around Derek’s neck, and presses their mouths together.

Personal space is overrated.

Stiles kicks the door closed as they stumble together into the room. Derek can’t see anything past Stiles’ nose and the moles on his flushed cheeks, but right now he doesn’t need to. All he needs are Stiles’ lips, welcoming and firm, against his own, and his scent, those familiar notes awakening his senses. Derek is drowning in cut grass and crisp breezes, a hint of lemon, and cinnamon. He’d gladly suffocate if it means having Stiles with him until the end.

So overwhelmed, Derek fails to notice the underlying scents Stiles carries. The sharp ozone-like odor of anxiety, the slightly rotten aroma that Derek knows comes with exhaustion. Not enough to turn Stiles’ scent into something displeasing—Derek still wants to roll around with the kid, cover the room in their mixed musk—but the sour smells trouble his wolf, triggering a cascade of protective instincts.

Derek pulls his mouth away.

“Just when it was getting good…” Stiles sighs, a lazy smile on his face. An expression at odds with the dark circles under his eyes and the waxy tone of his pale skin, normally so luminescent and beautiful.

“Why didn’t you tell me how bad it was?” Derek asks, guiding Stiles to the bed. “I could tell you were tired—”

“I told you, things have been weird,” Stiles says, sitting willingly. He tugs Derek’s hand until he sits down beside him. “So much going on with Scott and the pack, and going back to school. I try to sleep but my brain never shuts down. I’m like a phone with too many apps open at once, you know? Nothing works the way it’s supposed to.”

Derek runs a roving eye over Stiles. The red hoodie he’s wearing looks well-worn and washed-soft. Derek absentmindedly fingers one of the frayed cuffs while Stiles vents, noting that Stiles’ heartbeat evens out as a result. A triangle of white cotton is visible between the hoodie’s open zipper and Stiles’ throat; a pair of moles tempts Derek from just above the neckline. His jeans are dark and tantalizingly tight, denim wrapped around his thighs like a second skin. Derek wants to rub his face between Stiles’ legs, absorb the heat of him through the fabric.

“But when I thought about you,” Stiles continues, “I don’t know, it was like I could focus. And normally that’s kind of a problem for me, but _you_ brought me out of it. My pack usually anchors me whenever I get too out of my head, but everything’s been fucked up.”

“What happened tonight?” Derek’s fingers circle Stiles’ wrist, drag down the valley between his tendons. “What made you call?”

Stiles’ gaze is fixed on the cheap, low-pile motel carpet. Derek seeks out the light in his brown eyes—it’s dim, but it’s there.

“Scott kinda flipped out,” Stiles explains, turning his hand over so Derek’s fingers are tracing the underside of his palm. “He’s _never_ like that, trust me. Sometimes I wonder if he really is a werewolf, because he’s so zen about everything.”

He tells Derek about Scott and his girlfriend Allison, and the awkward tension tangible throughout the entire pack since summer began. 

“Their relationship hasn’t been the same since graduation. Everything was easier in highschool. Even _pack_ ,” he adds, voice strained. “I think they had another fight. I’m human, so obviously I couldn’t feel what it was about, but I have a pretty good idea.” Stiles doesn’t elaborate and Derek doesn’t ask him to. “But when I saw him later, he totally lost it.”

“He broke down?”

Stiles shakes his head. “He got angry. Maybe it’d been building for a while, I don’t know, but he accused me of not being dedicated to the pack. My _own_ pack—can you believe that?” he asks, exasperated. Derek’s eardrums beat along with the rapid pace of Stiles’ pulse. “I’m the one who started calling us a pack, back when it was pretty much only me and Scott.”

Stiles suddenly becomes the aggressor in their little game of _handsie_ , fingers curling between Derek’s and stroking as his emotions come to a boil. Derek lets his hand go lax and lets Stiles move it however he chooses.

“He said that if I wanted out of the pack, I should just leave.”

“That’s not what you want.”

“Of course not!” Stiles exclaims, mouth wide. “Which is what I tried to tell him, but he wasn’t in the mood to listen. And then he said that it didn’t look very good for me to be ‘going off and screwing another Alpha’—his words, not mine. Like somehow you’re damaging his reputation, which is something he’s never actually cared about.”

Derek feels for Stiles, but at the same time he sympathizes with McCall (not that he’s happy about it). Being an Alpha is difficult—an enormous amount of responsibility chained to the power—but being a _young_ Alpha is torture. Derek never would have chosen to bear this weight if the mantle hadn’t been thrust upon him.

He knows that the threat of losing a pack member—even a perceived one—can be psychologically devastating at McCall’s age.

Part of Derek wants to apologize for the stress this has caused Stiles, but his wolf bites the words right off his tongue. It might sound selfish, but he would absolutely steal Stiles away from McCall if he could; if it wouldn’t tear Stiles in two; if Stiles’ loyalty didn’t lie exclusively with his best friend, and for good reason.

Because clearly, Derek’s one night with Stiles doesn’t compare to an entire lifetime of friendship.

Stiles pulls out his phone before Derek can come up with the right thing to say.

“I know he didn’t mean any of it,” he tells Derek, thumb swiping across the screen. “Something about the look in his eyes, like the craziness wasn’t really coming from him, you know? And he’s texted me, like, a hundred times since I left.”

“Did you tell him where you were going?”

Stiles looks over. “I didn’t want Scott to try and stop me.”

Meaning, at least for tonight, Derek has edged out McCall. Satisfaction glows warm in his chest. He might be an Alpha, but he’s not immune to insecurity.

He admits as much to Stiles. “I thought you might be coming to tell me this was a mistake.” When he looks up, he gets a full picture of Stiles’ irises, a sunburst of gold threads through the rich brown glass.

“You think I’d do that to you?”

“I think you’d give me enough credit to do it face-to-face,” Derek says, wincing when Stiles laughs.

“Oh my god, no way. If I was breaking up with someone, I would just hide out until they got the message. Not that I’m breaking up with you.” Stiles begins to stumble over his words. “I mean, not that we’re _together_ like that. I wasn’t gonna assume anything.”

That statement causes Derek’s eyebrows to peak. Stiles grins.

“Okay, so maybe I did a _little_ bit of assuming,” Stiles says. “There hasn’t been anyone else since you and I—you know.”

Derek refuses to fight the smile that takes over his face. Instead of telling Stiles that he feels the same way (he meant it when he told Erica that he hated talking about his feelings), Derek hooks Stiles around the waist and leans in for a kiss. Stiles responds eagerly until he gets a whiff of the greasy-fried goodness Derek picked up from the diner.

“You have French fries in here,” he says, swiveling towards the dresser. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Derek honestly forgot about dinner. Stiles kicks off his shoes and grabs the containers, bringing them back to the bed. He arranges himself cross-legged opposite Derek—a feat in those skin-tight jeans. “Sorry,” he says, “was this all for you?”

“I thought I got enough to share,” Derek says, watching Stiles grab a handful of the crinkle-cut fries. “But maybe I was wrong.”

They divvy up the burger and fries (Derek sneaks a few extras over onto Stiles’ side of the clamshell container) and feed their most immediate craving. Stiles eats with a single-mindedness that does funny things to Derek’s libido. He remembers the way Stiles threw himself into sex, as if he could consume Derek. That and seeing just how much Stiles can fit in his mouth is so absurdly (and insanely) hot, it’s nearly unspeakable.

When Stiles sees the cookies, he starts panting. But that quickly turns into a whine when Derek snatches the bag away.

“Those are for later,” he says, smirking.

“You’re making me _earn_ my dessert?” He leans away from Derek, considering. When Derek crosses his arms, he shrugs. “I can live with that.”

Derek pounces.

He unzips Stiles’ hoodie and pushes the fabric off his shoulders. “I like this,” he says, “but it needs to go.”

Stiles allows himself to be stripped from the waist up, waits for Derek to meet his gaze once his shirt is tossed aside. “Red is my favorite color.”

Unleashing his wolf, Derek flashes blood-colored eyes. With the surge to his senses, he’s able to see the flush spread cell by cell up the skin of Stiles’ throat, read the quiver in his lips.

“Holy shit,” Stiles moans. “Yes…more of that, please.”

There’s passion in Derek’s touch and speculation in his stare. Stiles’ eyes fall closed as his body melts under Derek’s hands, and Derek uses the opportunity to give him a thorough once-over.

Beyond the signs of obvious stress, Stiles looks the same as he did the night Derek met him at the roadhouse—no quirk or clue or anomalous scent to give Derek any idea why Stiles was able to leave his mark, literally, on Derek’s skin.

Those marks faded within a day, but Derek spent too much time looking at them in the mirror, to the point where he could see them, trace them when he closed his eyes. He was terrified at first, not to mention baffled, but he mourned their absence when they disappeared.

Lost to memory, Derek’s hands pause around Stiles’ ribcage. Impatient, Stiles bats his hands away, pushing all up into Derek’s space and kissing the wolf into submission. The forge-warmth of Stiles’ mouth reshapes Derek’s intentions—Stiles can do whatever he wants while Derek goes along for the ride.

Stiles tears Derek’s shirt off as if clothes are a distraction he can’t endure. With wide eyes drinking in the sight of Derek’s bare chest, Stiles deftly flicks his belt buckle open and undoes the fly, cupping his prize with a warm palm.

“I jerked off so many times thinking about you,” Stiles says, fingers teasing Derek through his underwear. “I should’ve come sooner.”

Derek lifts his hand and squeezes Stiles’ bicep. The words sit thick in his throat. “You came,” he says, knowing that’s what matters.

Stiles grins. “Yeah.”

Derek falls willingly as he’s pushed down onto his back and helps Stiles maneuver him out of his jeans and socks. Eager to put on a show, Derek folds an arm behind his head while at the same time casually tilting one leg to the side.

As invitations go, this one’s pretty blatant.

Stiles chokes on nothing but air, wrapping one hand around Derek’s ankle and swiping his thumb across the soft, dark hair that continues down over the top of Derek’s foot. That same hand starts a slow sweep up Derek’s leg as Stiles crawls between Derek’s knees, journey ending with a playful roundabout over his abdomen.

Derek’s already hard—the anticipation was enough to get him firing on all cylinders—but Stiles drags lazy fingers across his belly, follows the cut of his hip all the way around to where skin meets the sheets under Derek’s ass. And then back to the forest-trail of hair running down Derek’s midline until it disappears beneath the band atop his underwear, reverently silent the entire time.

Until, of course, Stiles’ hand covers Derek’s cock, testing his girth through the material straining to cover him.

“I can’t stop thinking about that blowjob you gave me,” Stiles says, voice a low simmer. “I kept imagining how I’d return the favor if I got the chance.”

Caged within his mind, Derek’s wolf begins to whine. For his own sanity (and remembering how Stiles reacted the last time), he slackens his hold just enough for the wolf to bleed through his irises, smirking when he hears Stiles’ breath quicken.

“ _Shit_ ,” he moans, bracing himself on Derek’s thighs, palms wide. “You’ve gotta stop doing that or else this is gonna be over before I can suck you off.” He swings his chest over Derek, eyes alight. “And I _really_ wanna do that.”

Growling in his throat, Derek yanks Stiles down by his lean and athletic shoulders and subjects him to a kiss that’s all wolf—untamed and voracious. Derek holds his mouth wide and consumes every sound Stiles makes. His hands wander and claim, massaging Stiles’ shoulders and the back of his supple neck.

All of it whips Stiles into a craze. He tears his mouth away and crawls backwards until he’s poised over Derek’s cock, looking like the culmination of every fantasy Derek’s had over the last three weeks.

“I want to watch you get hard sometime,” Stiles says with a red stain high on his cheekbones. “Or feel you get hard in my mouth.” He wipes the corner of his lips— _literally_ salivating at his own words. “It’d be so hot, you know? I’ve never done that with anyone.”

Derek likes hearing that, but his triumphant snarl is cut off when Stiles touches him through his briefs, fingers pulling the fabric loose. Light torture for only a moment though as Stiles caves and carefully lifts Derek’s underwear over his cock, their knees knocking as the briefs are worked down and tossed aside.

Stiles is done throwing time away with caresses and words; he dives in with a purpose using one hand to guide Derek’s cock up to his mouth. Derek can see the slope of Stiles’ canine teeth, blunt and perfect as he shapes his mouth around the bell-tip. He treats the uncut cock like a salt-lick, circling the head with the point of his tongue, bringing the foreskin forward and teasing beneath the fold.

Derek glances down, sees that Stiles’ eyes are open, but the kid’s nearly zoned out. _Pleasure_. It’s written all over Stiles’ face. Derek could die here and now knowing that Stiles found rapture in a goddamn blowjob, but sticking around is a much better plan.

“Stiles…” Derek fails to keep his composure. The fluid slide of Stiles’ lips rolling over his cock means it’s impossible for Derek to think his way around how good it feels—he can’t even tell himself to breathe. Reaching out, Derek grips the back of Stiles’ neck, gasping as the dam breaks, sensation bleeding out of him through touch.

Stiles’ skin is no barrier to the wash of emotion Derek sends his way. He jerks and shudders in Derek’s hold. His lips fall slack and release Derek’s cock.

“The _hell_ was that?” he groans. “Did you just push your feelings at me?”

“I don’t know,” Derek confesses. He’s taken someone else’s pain before—humans in the Hale pack numbered over a dozen before the fire—and he knows a werewolf can transfer healing powers in times of desperate need. But this is new, and given his surprise, Stiles obviously hasn’t experienced it before either.

“Now you know what you’re doing to me.”

“Fuck,” Stiles curses, mouth whisper-close to the head of Derek’s cock. “That’s insanely hot.”

Feral grin spreading, Derek threads his fingers through Stiles’ hair and pushes him down, watching through dilated pupils while Stiles takes to his task like a clever student who’s desperate to please.

Stiles anchors the undulations of his upper body with one hand on Derek’s thigh, fingers flexing with inconsistent pressure. Completing the circle, Derek moves one hand down to cover Stiles’, pressing firmly. Squeezing the kid’s fingerprints into Derek’s skin. He’s addicted to the whip-threads of pain it causes, encouraging a rougher hand. The discomfort fades quickly; Derek hopes the marks will remain.

Stiles reacts and adapts, fills his mouth to capacity with heavy flesh, clutching Derek’s quad when it becomes too much. Derek feels his spine locking, chemicals beginning to cascade and overwhelm his nervous system when Stiles suddenly pulls off again. His eyes slam shut against the violent flash of Alpha rage; he holds himself perfectly still through a dozen heartbeats until he knows the wolf is restrained before he looks at Stiles.

He knows before the kid even opens his mouth that he won’t be receiving an apology. Stiles looks way too smug.

“I couldn’t decide if I wanted you to come in my mouth or if we should come at the same time,” Stiles ponders out loud, voice reverberant and more distressed than it was ten minutes ago.

Derek seizes him by the wrist. “Choose both,” he growls, “because there’s no way I’m letting you out of this room until daylight.” 

The air of satisfaction surrounding Stiles is blown away, replaced by wide-eyed surprise, flush spreading across Stiles’ collarbones and down his sternum. Highlighting the path Derek’s mouth is eager to travel.

He decides for Stiles. “Keep going,” he says, knowing that if Stiles leaves him on the razor wire like this, he won’t be able to control himself. His wolf _knows_ Stiles, would never take anything that wasn’t being offered, but the cage wouldn’t hold for long. He needs a clear heart—and a sated body—if he’s going to soak up everything Stiles has to give.

And Stiles doesn’t hesitate. He rears up and steals a kiss off Derek’s lips, nips at his chin before slipping back down to drop his friction-warmed mouth over Derek’s cock, saliva creating a slick slide of tongue over skin. Swirling, sucking, and moaning—Derek’s helpless in the tempest, coming hard and fast across Stiles’ tongue.

The post-orgasm haze lasts longer than Derek’s used to. By the time he’s seeing clearly, Stiles is fumbling and struggling with the button on his jeans. Derek is about to offer his assistance when the button finally pops, zipper giving way with a short _rrrrip_.

“Damn, that was uncomfortable,” Stiles says, knees and elbows everywhere as he wriggles out of his jeans. Derek stops him before he can give his underwear the same careless treatment and tilts him to the side for a claiming kiss.

“I bet I taste like you.”

A shock hits Derek’s balls. Stiles’ mouth is incendiary, reigniting Derek’s arousal despite the draining orgasm.

“Do I?” Stiles asks, offering Derek another chance to taste. It’s nothing for Derek to identify traces of his come in Stiles’ mouth. “I _love_ sex with werewolves,” he adds once Derek’s licked his mouth clean, “’cause I get to do things like sucking off the hottest guy I’ve ever seen without a condom.”

Derek leans away, brow locked.

But Stiles reads him easily. “That’s a jealous look,” he remarks, easy smile counterpoint to Derek’s sudden shift in mood. “C’mon, Derek, there’s no reason to brood. You’re the first were I’ve been with.”

He is _not_ brooding. “Then how’d you know it was safe?”

“Seriously?” Stiles turns his head and laughs, tendons in his throat elevated just under the surface of his skin. “My pack’s a bunch of horny students and none of us are shy. Or discreet,” he adds. “Some days it feels like the freaking Jersey Shore.”

Derek kind of hates that he understands Stiles’ reference.

With his hands on Derek’s shoulders, Stiles tries to coax him back into the action. Taking the mouth that’s caused so much trouble tonight (most of it good), Derek is carried away in the kiss, experiencing more of what Stiles can do with his lips and tongue.

He feels crazy and carefree, willing and open. So different from the muddled days and lonely nights he’s endured for the last three weeks. Derek’s starting to feel like the wolf Boyd respects again, the one Isaac looks up to. Like Erica’s best friend, not the sullen Alpha who’s quick to snap and hard to be around.

Derek is terrified because this thing with Stiles is without definition. He doesn’t know when he’ll see Stiles again ( _if_ he sees Stiles again—it’s not entirely up to Derek), and fears that, next time, the effects of their separation will be worse.

So for now Derek ignores the problem entirely, shuts the rest of his mind off and focuses on feeling. His wolf is pawing the inside of his chest, anxious to relearn the beautiful swerve of this kid’s body, nose out every single note of his complex scent.

As Stiles undulates beneath him, Derek licks the dip between the twin peaks of Stiles’ upper lip. His hand re-anchors itself around the back of Stiles’ head, twining through the messy strands, but his wolf isn’t too happy with the artificial texture of Stiles’ hair—too many scents obscuring the one Derek really wants.

“Why do you rub this stuff in your hair?” he asks as his lips skim across Stiles’ cheek, skipping from mole to mole until he can tug on the soft lobe of Stiles’ ear with his teeth.

“You know it looks good.” Derek can hear the smirk in his voice. “Besides,” Stiles continues, fingers combing behind Derek’s temple, “it’s not like you’re going _au natural_ , Mr. Hale.”

Derek nips his ear. “Mine’s engine grease.”

Stiles’ shoulders are broader than they look under the camouflage of t-shirts and hoodies. Derek noses down the naked curve of his neck, along the warm slope where he rubs his face against Stiles’ skin, heat transferring between them. Stiles’ breathing becomes heavier as Derek shimmies lower, fingers raising goosebumps. His instincts are fierce—the wolf is becoming more desperate. It wants Stiles at his core, to break down everything that makes him so special.

When he reaches Stiles’ underwear, Derek pauses. Looks up, waits for a nod or a sound of confirmation. Instead he gets Stiles’ hands edging Derek’s out of the way.

“You seriously thought I was gonna stop you?” Stiles asks, slightly manic. He shuffles out of the grey boxer briefs and spreads his legs for Derek without modesty or shame. “I’ve thought about this for weeks, Derek. Pretty much 24/7, okay?”

Derek squeezes his knee. “I was only going to ask what you wanted.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles whines. “ _Anything_.”

That gives Derek an idea.

“Want to know what _I_ thought about when I didn’t have you?”

Stiles agrees so quickly, his head almost nods right off of his shoulders. So Derek shares the visions his Stiles-starved mind conjured over the last few weeks. How he’s desperate to know exactly what Stiles likes, what ignites his body. That he’s eager to watch Stiles touch himself, and that he’s imagined every detail over and over.

Derek is half-terrified by the number of words he’s laying out, but they spill easily. Stiles doesn’t stop moving while he talks, as if Derek’s fantasies are reaching out to stroke his skin. He writhes with his hands flung out wide on the bed, palms open and searching for Derek.

By the time Derek’s done talking, Stiles is a wreck. His cock looks agonizingly hard, silky head shining with precome, and his legs have laid their claim around Derek’s waist.

“We should do that,” Stiles pants. “Like, _all_ of it.”

Derek grins. His cheeks are going to be sore after tonight, but that’s the least of his concerns. “Right now?” he asks, catching Stiles’ hands with his own and reeling them back towards his body. Stiles’ fingers are a comforting contrast to Derek’s, pale and elegant where Derek’s are thick and rough from hard labor, dark and wide. But Derek enjoys the visual they create when Stiles threads their fingers together, reluctant to let go even now when there’s an orgasm waiting for him in the very near future.

“Now, later…tomorrow morning,” Stiles agrees, “just _touch_ me before I lose my freakin’ mind!”

It takes Derek all of ten precious seconds to find the lube Stiles says is stashed in the front pocket of his backpack. He wants this to feel as good as possible.

Three weeks was long enough for Derek to forget the way Stiles’ cock fit in his hand, along with how the hot, blood-flushed skin felt against his palm. Fully aroused, Stiles’ erection is long (even in Derek’s significant grip) and straight— _perfect_ —and the sight of it gives Derek plenty of ideas for future nights together. He silently vows to make certain Stiles wants to come back to him time and time again.

Their discordant symphony of heavy breathing and murmured encouragements fills the otherwise quiet motel room. Only the faint _woosh_ of a car speeding along the midnight highway reaches Derek’s ears. And he’s grateful for the absence of aural distractions, able to focus on every sound he’s wringing out of Stiles’ overstimulated body.

Stiles swings his hips up, pushes his slicked cock through Derek’s grip. As if he’s reading the fantasy straight out of Derek’s mind, he drops one hand to join Derek’s around his dick, providing an instant surge of heat and pressure.

Surrendering to the rush, Derek follows Stiles’ lead, fingers loosening enough to wrap over the top of Stiles’ knuckles. Stiles raises his knees, gently traps Derek in between and opens the rest of his body into a tempting tableau for the hungry wolf. Derek commits every movement to memory, scents the air to know when Stiles is close to coming. The kid is nearly there, tightrope nerves and fluttering eyelashes, though still possessing enough coordination to guide their joined hands up and down his cock. Derek inhales a lungful of lust-sweetened air, suddenly aware that he has less than a minute before Stiles’ body hits the override button.

Greedy—seriously, his wolf is _salivating_ —Derek throws their hands to the side, curls down quick as a whip, and takes Stiles’ cock all the way to the back of his mouth. Imagining he’s able to feel the current of sheer pleasure that runs through Stiles’ body, Derek swallows as Stiles’ body locks in an up-thrust. Stiles’ hands snap back, digging into the muscle across the back of Derek’s shoulders. Some of the blood in Derek’s veins immediately changes direction, swelling into the tissue under Stiles’ fingertips.

 _Good_ , Derek thinks. _That’s what I wanted_.

“Fuck, Derek,” Stiles whines. “I need it—oh _fuck_ , I need it, please…”

As much as Derek wants to wait and flex further into Stiles’ bruising hold, he’s not immune to Stiles’ begging. He caves easily, sucking hard and flicking his tongue. When Stiles comes, Derek is ready for it, savoring the taste as it slides down his throat.

Now that he and his wolf are satisfied, Derek pulls off and gathers Stiles into his arms.

When Stiles finally speaks, his voice is wrecked. “Is this cuddle time?”

“Recovery time,” Derek clarifies. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Stiles mutters something that sounds like _good_ against Derek’s shoulder, and Derek grins. There’s still plenty of time between them and sunrise—time enough for Derek and Stiles to cross a few more things off their wish lists—so he doesn’t mind drifting for a few minutes (even werewolves get heavy-eyed after spine melting sex). 

So if _cuddle time_ lasts a little longer than Derek is planning, that’s good, too.

~~~

Eventually they do need to clean up.

Derek _loves_ the way his scent has combined with Stiles on the pillows and sheets (and the floor, the dresser, and the awkward-looking chair in the corner of the room), but after a few hours, even he’ll admit soap and water would do them both some good.

Stiles is bonelessly sprawled across the ridiculously disheveled bed (Derek’s wolf growls proudly within his chest), so Derek takes his turn first, skipping the sink and going straight for the shower.

The hot water stings and soothes at the same time. Derek can _feel_ where Stiles has left new marks across his back, down his arms. He turns and lets the stream pound down on the deepest contusions, ignoring their meaning in favor of the rush of _rightness_ that surges within him. If Derek’s balls had anything left to give, he’d be aroused all over again just by dragging his fingers over the bruises on his hips. He’s decided those are his favorites.

Lost in the sensations, Derek fails to hear Stiles come into the bathroom until he’s pulling back the curtain, gasping as he gets an eyeful of Derek’s mottled skin.

Derek freezes, one hand over his hip. Stiles is speechless, standing on the tile floor in nothing but his unbuttoned jeans, uneasy eyes scanning Derek from head to toe.

“What the hell?” Stiles asks, attempting to smile, mouth still swollen and pink from overuse. “Did you wrestle a bear before you got here? Or maybe someone dropped a _car_ on you at the garage…”

How can Stiles not see? The patterns he’s raised on Derek’s skin, a perfect ten-card of his fingerprints inked over Derek’s hipbones.

“Stiles.”

One heartbeat. Two. Four.

Stiles tries to shake off Derek’s stare. “What? It’s not like I did that,” he says, tossing a casual gesture at the marks. “Kind of impossible, remember?”

“Apparently not,” Derek tells him, voice strained as he realizes he’s still naked under the showerhead while trying to have a serious conversation.

“You’re saying I—that I made those? With _these_?” Stiles wags his fingers. “No way.”

Before Derek’s able to counter, Stiles spins and steps out of the bathroom. Derek curses and fumbles for the tap, blinking water out of his eyes as he reaches for a towel.

Wearing only that towel (which is a little small—annoyingly typical for roadside stopovers), Derek finds Stiles on the bed. The kid’s contemplating his hands, something Derek already did while Stiles dozed earlier. 

“You’re not supposed to bruise like that,” Stiles says quietly. “I mean, I’ve knocked Scott around a few times during training, but I’ve never been able to leave a mark. Are you sure it was me?”

Derek crosses his arms and nods. And then he doubles the burden.

“It’s not the first time.”

Those rich brown eyes shoot up. “Someone else has done this to you?”

“You did. Three weeks ago.”

Derek doesn’t get the reaction he’s expecting. Instead of firing into nervous action, Stiles stands up and approaches Derek like one of them is about to spook and run. Timidly, he places his right hand over one of the bruises on Derek’s arm.

And Derek _definitely_ isn’t prepared for the touch to zing straight through him, quickening his pulse. Stiles tilts his head as if able to hear the thumping in Derek’s chest.

“What am I?”

“You’re _human_ ,” Derek says, no hesitation. He’s just spent hours breathing in nothing but Stiles—his exhales, his sweat, his musk—and if he knows anything, it’s that Stiles is 100% human.  
Stiles absorbs that before asking, “Does it hurt?”

“Not at all. They’ll fade in a few days. I didn’t notice them last time until after you left the garage.”

“You never mentioned it.”

“I didn’t know what to tell you,” Derek admits. “It could have been enthusiasm,” he says, corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. “It could _still_ be enthusiasm. We don’t know.”

Stiles spends a few minutes examining each of the marks. If he’s searching for some kind of meaning, he doesn’t share the specifics with Derek.

Turning, bending, and even unfolding the towel, Derek moves willingly until Stiles is satisfied, the entire ritual reminding him of the hours he spent in the mirror the first time he noticed the bruises.

“There’s gotta be a reason,” Stiles says, “and I’m gonna find it.”

Derek’s a born wolf; he’s never heard of anything like this. All the same, he admires the kid’s conviction, taking it as evidence that he _means_ something to Stiles.

“You never finished your shower.”

Derek can smell the soap he has yet to rinse out of his hair. “Were you gonna join me?”

Stiles shakes his head and lets go, backing towards the bed. Derek is disappointed, but he understands. Now that Stiles is aware of these strange circumstances, he could use a minute to adjust, too.

But as he steps under the hot water for the second time, Derek doesn’t regret letting Stiles see the bruises. Whatever’s going on between them—and every single one of Derek’s instincts are telling him that this is nothing to fear—they’re in it together.

Once Derek’s finished, Stiles slips past him into the bathroom with a simple wink. Derek listens to the rhythm of water on tile, on vinyl, on skin, and enjoys the warmth amassing in his muscles as he pictures Stiles wet and slick and touching his lean body with those long, artistic fingers.

Modeling the other towel around his lean hips, Stiles returns to the bed when he’s clean, wet hair dripping onto the pillow. Derek opens his arms and they ease back into one another, making out with leisure as if nothing in the world can disturb them. 

Stiles doesn’t temper his touches—in fact, he never stops touching Derek at all, varying pressure like he’s experimenting. Weaving himself into Derek’s fabric, each touch grounding their connection. 

Stiles remembers the cookies at five a.m. He brings the wax paper bag over to the bed and tucks back in beside Derek before the sheets lose his body heat. There’s a lopsided smile on Derek’s face while Stiles breaks the cookies into quarters and feeds him a piece, ignoring the soft patter of crumbs dropping on his chest. Stiles’ sugar-seeking tongue sweeps those up once the cookies are gone.

Sleep begins to tug at Derek’s senses after that. Beside him, and despite the chocolate, Stiles is yawning, too. As much as Derek wants to stay awake, he doesn’t fight the pull to close his eyes. Stiles shifts and finally settles with his head on Derek’s arm. No one’s ever used him as a pillow before—Derek finds he doesn’t mind all that much.

Lying together, they wait for the sun to rise and bring an end to their quiet morning.

~~~

After losing two rounds of rock, paper, scissors, Derek gets dressed and picks up coffee from the diner next door. When he walks back into room 24, Stiles is holding Derek’s phone.

“Were you on my blog?”

Derek hands him one of the cups, scrambling for an excuse.

“It’s totally fine,” Stiles says before Derek can come up with anything. “I gave you the name for a reason.”

“I checked it out.”

Stiles grins, expression silly and honest. “I was looking through your music and found a bunch of songs I’d recommended.”

It’s Derek’s turn to smile. “You might not have _terrible_ taste in music. What were you doing on my phone?”

“Trying to add some raunchy pictures for you to remember me by,” Stiles says. Derek holds his breath until Stiles adds, “until next time, obviously.” He passes the phone to Derek. “Don’t look for the pics now—wait ‘til later when you miss me too much.”

Even though Stiles hasn’t left yet, Derek kind of misses him already, but admitting that would give the kid an even greater advantage.

“I’m not gonna wait so long to call this time,” Stiles tells him after temperature-testing the coffee and taking a sip.

“Your pack’s important—I understand.”

Stiles sighs. “I know you do, but they can’t be everything I need right now.”

Derek’s on that in a flash, instinct smothering rationality. “So tell me what you need.”

If Derek needs to give Stiles more space, he’ll do it. He’ll put a canyon between them if he has to, as long as he knows Stiles is on the other side. If he needs time, Derek will go broke buying it for him. He may not be capable of _saying_ it, but Derek hopes Stiles has some idea—instincts of his own telling him how serious Derek is.

“You said this was up to me,” Stiles says, essentially repeating the question he posed over the phone last night, “but that’s not totally fair, Derek. What about you?”

“I know what I want.”

“Well do you mind _sharing_?” Stiles asks, adorably exasperated.

The words have been on Derek’s mind all morning, but he has to force himself to let them go. “I want to see you as often as I can. I’ve wanted that from the minute we started talking at the roadhouse. I know you have a pack _and_ an Alpha, and I’m a complication you don’t need—”

“That’s exactly what I need,” Stiles cuts in, fitting himself into Derek’s personal space. “Everyone else in my pack is paired up—I thought there was something _wrong_ with me.”

“That’s not what _pack_ is about.”

“Yeah, I get that in theory, but—”

“And there’s nothing wrong with you, Stiles.” As soon as Derek says it, Stiles shoots a pointed look at the bruises on Derek’s forearms. “Those aren’t an issue,” he adds before Stiles can comment, “just part of what makes this interesting.”

“Interesting…right. Nice way of putting it.”

Derek has a feeling he’ll be rolling his eyes a lot with Stiles. “Still wondering how I feel?”

Stiles leans a little closer. Derek’s wolf, sated and resting within his mind, is pleased by the way his scent is all over Stiles—his skin, his clothing, his hair. No way will McCall be able to miss it.

“Not so much. That was, um, pretty clear. And I want this to be a thing, too,” Stiles tells him, “in case you were wondering. I’ll swing it with Scott somehow.”

That’ll be a tough sell. But Derek has no doubt Stiles is smart enough (and stubborn enough) to get his way. Life with Stiles in the pack must be a constant, hyperactive adventure; Derek wishes it was something he could experience.

Someday.

“I have to go.”

Stiles’ voice startles Derek out of his thoughts, and he realizes they’ve been standing together in silence for almost five minutes, arms naturally winding around one another.

“I know.”

“Meaning you have to _let me go_ ,” Stiles adds, grinning.

Derek does reluctantly, face blank while Stiles gathers the few things he brought. Coffee in hand, Stiles leads Derek out to his Jeep, mismatched and yet somehow perfect parked next to the ink-black Camaro. No words are necessary—Derek trusts what Stiles said in the room. He’ll see Stiles soon. Derek just hopes his wolf can be patient.

But as Stiles pulls away, one long-fingered hand out the window in a parting wave, Derek can already feel the wolf stirring, uneasy now that Stiles’ scent no longer surrounds him. When the Jeep disappears down the highway, Derek sighs and turns to the Camaro, the lassitude from a phenomenal night of sex and _Stiles_ already fading.

It’s going to be a long day.

~~~

“Seriously?” Erica cocks her hip, looking at Derek as if his existence has somehow insulted her. “You haven’t moved since I left for work”—she checks her watch—“almost nine hours ago.”

Derek acknowledges her with a lazy glance before shifting his gaze back to the phone on the table.

He was right when he thought being without Stiles would be more difficult now. Something had clicked into place between them, something that Derek had only gotten a taste of the first time they were together. Stiles’ absence is an ache, a hollow in his chest that’s been empty since he watched Stiles drive away four days ago.

And it scares him.

“Did you snap at Isaac?”

Derek looks up. “Did he say that?”

Erica shakes her head. “He called you grumpy and said you barely talked to him when he got home from school.”

“Is he here?” Derek thinks about getting up to find the youngest member of his pack and apologize, but his arms and legs are leaden.

Erica pauses between the den and the kitchen, car keys jangling in her hand. “He left. Texted Boyd and I to let us know he was going to a physics study group. You didn’t notice he was gone?”

Derek wonders about his senses. Normally he’s hyper-aware of the comings and goings of his pack, but he didn’t even hear Erica’s car pulling up to the large house. Part of him wants to call Stiles (hence the phone mocking him from the coffee table) and make sure nothing’s wrong with the kid, but the rest insists he’s overreacting: a normal power-drain from pushing himself to the limit over the last few weeks.

He listens to Erica moving around the house. Sharp clicks until she ditches her heels at the bottom of the stairs. Softer footfalls as she heads back to the kitchen for a soda from the fridge. Derek feels the weight of her stare when she returns to the den, the effervescent pop of carbon bubbles tickling his eardrums. At least he can hear _that_.

“This is starting to freak me out, Derek,” she says quietly, her normally robust voice brittle and honest. “Are you sure I don’t need to be worrying about some nasty creature putting a spell on you?”

“No spell,” Derek admits, “just Stiles.”

Erica hums. “Right, Stiles.” She claims the open space on the couch beside Derek. The contrast of her scents is calming—crushed flowers on a leather chair. “Are you _sure_ he’s human?”

Derek huffs. “Now you sound like him.”

She tosses her honey curls over her shoulder. “He must be a smartie, huh?”

“Or not,” Derek counters, “because he got involved with me.”

“So it’s definitely a thing now?”

The chasm that’s opened up within Derek’s chest means it’s more than a ‘thing.’ But Erica already knows that. Derek’s been off for days, and his best friend doesn’t miss a beat.

“Finally feel like telling me about it?” she asks, scooting closer. “Obviously I’m crazy curious about this guy, but I’m worried now. Broody Alpha is one thing,” she says, shoving his shoulder, “but you’re not brooding. You’re totally checked out.”

So Derek tells her. Not about the sex, but about the emotions. The way he’s felt tied to Stiles from the moment they met. The way he’s felt empty since they said their temporary goodbyes. And he tells her about the bruises.

“Yeah, I was wondering how to bring those up. I saw them around your neck when you came back to the garage,” she explains. “And you’re telling me that a kid—”

“He’s nineteen.”

“—did that to you? That’s insane, Derek. You know that, right?”

“They all faded,” Derek defends. “It’s not like he’s ever hurt me.”

Erica’s gaze turns skeptical. “And you have no idea what allowed him to leave marks on you?”

Derek sighs. “Nothing that’s consistent with Stiles being human.”

“Then this is beyond your expertise,” Erica says, swinging herself up off the couch in one fluid motion. “C’mon, get up. We’re going out.”

“For what?” Derek asks, instincts keyed up.

“Date night,” Erica tosses out flippantly. “Jesus, Derek. For a _second opinion_ , you brute. Now let’s go!”

~~~

“Reyes!” Dean calls out as soon as Erica and Derek walk into the roadhouse. “Back for more of the Winchester charm?”

A smoother voice chimes in right after Dean. “More like the Winchester whiskey.”

Derek’s surprised to see Dean’s brother Sam walking out from behind the bar. Usually it’s the oldest Winchester handling business in the roadhouse—from everything Dean’s told Derek, Sam enjoys working behind the scenes, building a library of supernatural lore. Maybe Erica’s onto something after all…

They settle at the end of the bar, away from the rest of the dozen or so patrons. Without prompting, Dean pops the caps off two beers and sets them in front of Derek and Erica.

“I can practically _smell_ the questions on you two,” Dean says. “Drinks first. Interrogation later.”

Sam takes Dean’s place after he turns to pull more bottles out of the fridge. The younger Winchester’s scent is similar in tone and texture to Dean’s, full-bodied and complex, but with hints of bitter ink and old paper beneath the cordite and freshly turned earth. Their scents could be so well matched because they’re family—it’s common for pack members to have base scents in common—but Derek wonders if there’s something more to it. He knows the brothers are close; the way they move around one another is evidence enough of that. An unconscious dance, always aware of where their partner is in the room. Derek’s rarely seen Sam and Dean together, but their connection is plain as day.

“So I’m guessing you two didn’t drop by for the atmosphere tonight,” Sam states, folding his arms across his broad chest (Derek nearly has muscle envy). His sarcasm is obvious; the _atmosphere_ is as mellow as Derek’s ever seen it. There are two games of pool in-play against the far wall. The rest of the patrons have paired off and are scattered around the tables. Sam doesn’t appear to mind; Derek knows he and Dean aren’t in the bar business for the money it brings.

Erica wastes no time beating around the bush. “The guy Derek’s banging might not be totally human.”

Derek and Sam aim matching looks of surprise in her direction. 

Sam recovers more quickly. “Okay. What’s his scent telling you?”

Derek growls at Erica for good measure before saying, “He’s human. I don’t have any doubts about that.”

Erica’s nearly vibrating trying to hold back her opinion. With Sam looking on, Derek and his beta trade loaded looks, the silent language of _pack_.

“Yeah,” Sam drawls, “I’m gonna need a little more to go on. What makes you think he’s not human?” he asks, directing the question to Erica as if he’s able to sense Derek’s reluctance. “Does he know what _you_ are?”

“He’s in a mixed pack,” Erica explains, “so he knows all about it. I’ve never seen him, so I don’t know how he matches up to Derek physically, but I’ve never heard of a human being able to leave bruises on a werewolf with nothing but their bare hands.”

“Wait,” Sam jumps back it, “he’s able to mark an Alpha?”

Erica nods. “Crazy, huh?”

“And it doesn’t heal right away?”

“They fade in a day,” Derek says, “but it’s not like he’s hurting me.” Just the opposite, in fact, but Derek holds that back.

“Huh.” Sam’s frustratingly brief response gives nothing away, but the half-smile on his face lifts some of the weight off Derek’s shoulders.

Leaving Derek and Erica to their drinks, Sam steps away and sidles up to his brother at the other end of the bar, words pitched low enough that Derek has no chance of eavesdropping. The Winchesters have their own way of communicating wordlessly, too, quick gestures and tilts of the head. But neither of them appears worried—Derek translates their postures as curious, almost amused.

“Told you coming here was a good idea,” Erica says, nudging Derek’s elbow.

“We don’t know that yet.”

“Sam obviously knows something.”

“Wish he’d _share_ ,” Derek mutters, reminding himself of Stiles. His frown sets itself even deeper when he hears Dean’s bark of a laugh from across the bar. When he looks over, Dean’s grin is pure glee, like he’s taking pleasure in Derek’s obvious confusion.

“Reyes.” Dean waves Erica over. “Mind helping me out for a bit?”

Erica pouts, but when Derek nods, she stands up. “Fine, have your Alpha-time with Sam, or whatever. But you’re telling me all about it later!”

Sam hovers across the bar from Derek as they watch the two betas start chatting at the other end. His solid stance exudes confidence, and Derek has to remind himself that he’s in the Winchesters’ territory, and Sam is the Alpha. Derek doesn’t usually make it a habit to hang out with other Alphas (some instincts cannot be overwritten), but he can tolerate Sam’s easygoing personality.

That, and he’d be a _moron_ to pull anything in the roadhouse. He knows how well Dean handles a shotgun.

“Don’t look so worried, Hale,” Sam tells him. “Dean was just surprised when I told him what was going on.”

“What’d he say?”

Sam grins. “That you’re a lucky bastard.”

That catches Derek off-guard. 

“I didn’t think you wanted Erica to hear this, I hope you don’t mind. It’s personal, you know?” Derek nods, and Sam sighs. He leans over the bar, and though Derek’s skin is itching having another Alpha’s face so close to his throat, he swallows his discomfort to listen.

“Dean’s not just my beta,” Sam admits, confirming something Derek’s suspected for a long time. “He’s my mate, but it’s more than that. We left _brothers_ behind a long time ago. We’re pretty much equals now.”

Given the way Dean commands respect in the roadhouse, that’s easy for Derek to believe. Erica might act like she’s queen of the land every once in a while (and sometimes, Derek doesn’t even mind), but Dean _owns_ the roadhouse, even when Sam’s around.

“Have you ever heard of a surrogate Alpha?” Sam asks. 

Derek racks his brain, but comes up empty. You’re either an Alpha, or you’re not, and power can only be transferred under very specific conditions, death being the most obvious.

“I hadn’t either until a few years ago,” Sam continues, keeping his voice low. Dean sends a glance their way; he must know what Sam’s about to tell Derek. “After I was bitten, things were pretty rough between me and Dean. We’d been hunters our entire lives, and suddenly—” 

He braces his hands on the bartop. Stress stings Derek’s nostrils. He had no idea Sam and Dean were friggin’ _hunters_ before they were turned. The idea is just insane.

“You can imagine how hard that was on Dean, suddenly having a monster for a brother.” Sam says it lightly—a topic that’s long been settled between him and Dean—but Derek can still hear the old pain lacing the words. “But he helped me take down the murdering son of a bitch who attacked me. As soon as I became an Alpha, though, I started to notice some strange stuff happening. The tension between us was just gone—I _trusted_ Dean again. I didn’t even question it. I wanted to be around him all the time and he felt the same way, which was crazy. Obviously, I was terrified.”

As Sam’s confessing his history, Derek’s running his relationship with Stiles alongside it. The compulsion to be around Stiles; the urge to drop everything and go when he calls; the way he trusts Stiles implicitly without understanding why.

“We kept hunting. That was easier when I became an Alpha, too. Things had…happened between us.” Sam’s cheeks bloom bright red. Derek’s wolf reacts to the sudden rush of arousal the other Alpha’s feeling and he’s glad Sam’s not providing details. “But everything was good. We swung through Kansas on a hunt and met up with an old friend of our dad’s.” Sam pauses. “A psychic named Missouri.”

Derek tunes out everything else, roadhouse noise reduced to nothing but a dull echo. Sam tells him about the psychic, how she’d immediately sniffed out the changes in Sam. Not just that he’d been turned into a werewolf, but that he’d also become an Alpha.

“But she knew there was something different about Dean,” Sam says, “which we knew, but couldn’t admit. We were stronger when we were together, but we were also vulnerable to one another and I had no idea why.”  
“Vulnerable?”

“During a hunt, I got knocked out by guy channeling some ancient revenge spirit, and Dean had to drag me away from the crime scene after he…you know.”

Obviously Dean is handier with his firearms than Derek originally thought.

“Dragging me must’ve taken a lot of strength. Dean’s strong, but this took more than adrenaline. When I came to in the backseat of our car, all of my injuries had healed except for the bruises on my arms where Dean had grabbed me. We started paying attention after that.”

And Derek begins to understand: “Dean was still human then, wasn’t he?”

Sam nods. “We didn’t make the decision to turn Dean until almost a year after we saw Missouri. She told us it wasn’t necessary. He was a surrogate Alpha—that’s what she called it—either way. And Dean was already pretty badass as a human,” he adds with an indulgent smirk.

Sam’s _badass_ brother is still chatting Erica up at the other end of the bar when Derek looks over. Dean pulls bottles and Erica shows off, popping caps with her thumb. The two of them are a dangerous combination. Killer looks—full lips, seductive smiles, enviable bodies—and the savvy to protect what’s theirs by any means necessary. 

Anyone who assumes betas can’t be just as terrifying as Alphas has never met Erica Reyes and Dean Winchester.

Suddenly Derek imagines Stiles standing with them. Beautiful, intelligent, devious Stiles, defending his pack with a ferocity that comes out of nowhere.

_Holy shit._

And if Stiles turns out to be one of these _surrogate Alphas_ like Dean, then what the hell is Derek getting himself into?

Derek looks back to find Sam watching him with a guarded expression. The Winchesters have entrusted him with more than one secret here tonight, and Derek feels a little bit humbled. Sam and Dean may be a pack of two, but Derek can’t think of better allies.

But there’s still so much Derek needs to know—for himself, for Stiles—and there’s no time like the present.

“So what the hell is a surrogate Alpha?”

 

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> Finishing this fic was tough. My boyfriend broke up with me about three days before posting this, and it's been a dark time. Writing helped me take my mind off my depression though, so I'm grateful for that.
> 
> Another cliffhanger...sorry not sorry!
> 
> I'm over on Tumblr if you want to chat or have questions! [HurricaneKelleigh](http://hurricanekelleigh.tumblr.com/)


End file.
